


For the Sick and Dying

by GoAwayOlivia



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Jason is dramatic, Language, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11333322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoAwayOlivia/pseuds/GoAwayOlivia
Summary: It’s been a while since Jason has felt this bad. He’s used to being bruised and aching, used to broken bones and lacerations of all sizes and depths, but it’s been a hell of a long time since he’s been sick, and he’d honestly forgotten how much itsucks. His family isn't exactly helping matters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chibi_nightowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi_nightowl/gifts).



> This is a gift for the lovely chibi_nightowl who wrote me [Four Tablespoons](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8787844) when I was sick with the flu months and months ago. We're both under the weather this week and I thought we could use some grumpy sick Jason. I don't kow why, but immature and pouty Jason is definitely my jam right now. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, chibi_nightowl, and feel better!

It’s been a while since Jason has felt this bad. He’s used to being bruised and aching, used to broken bones and lacerations of all sizes and depths, but it’s been a hell of a long time since he’s been sick, and he’d honestly forgotten how much it _sucks_. Frankly, he might even prefer the broken bones. Yeah, the waiting while they heal is always a bitch, but even that seems preferable to how he currently feels. 

Terrible. That’s how he currently feels. Like he’s halfway back in his grave already. 

It started innocently enough. A couple of days before he woke up with a sharp feeling in his throat—like he swallowed something jagged. The next day it was worse, and by the time patrol rolled around that night it felt like a knife was being hammered into his skull, right above his right eye. It was so bad that when he ran into the little demon on some godforsaken rooftop, he actually pulled a gun on the kid as soon as he opened his mouth. 

That’s when he decided to pack it in and go home. He and Bruce had a tenuous truce going on, and Jason would hate to screw it all up by accidentally killing someone for making his headache worse. It was just irresponsible, being out on the street in his condition. There was no telling how many people could die. So he swung by a bodega, picked up some ibuprofen, ginger ale, sports drinks, tissues and cough drops, and sequestered himself in his loft apartment. 

He pretty much hasn’t moved since.

Currently, he’s nice and settled in a mass of blankets and pillows in his bathtub. His loft is drafty as hell and no matter how many sweaters he pulled on, he still couldn’t get warm enough in his bed. Usually he likes the wide, open spaces of his loft, but the lack of walls means the heat from the space heaters diffuses throughout the entire giant space. The bathroom is relatively small and completely enclosed though, so the heat settles and remains in the space. Jason had intended to only stay in for as long as it took him to warm up, but it’s been so warm he hasn’t had the will to move. He’s gotten up a few times to piss, but otherwise he’s kept his ass planted in his bathtub nest, and he doesn’t intend on moving anytime soon. 

Another bout of coughing racks his body, and Jason curls tighter around himself as he hacks up a lung, all the while mentally cursing Tim. This is definitely his fault. If the younger vigilante could keep from getting sick every other month, then he wouldn’t be spreading germs around to the rest of them and Jason wouldn’t be curled in his bathtub amidst half a dozen blankets just to stay warm. Tim should really consider using some of his considerable funds to buy a new spleen. He’d be doing them all a favor. Or maybe he could just learn to rest every now and then to help keep him from getting sick. Both options are equally unlikely, and only one because it isn’t actually a medical practice.

By the time the coughing eases, Jason’s exhausted and gasping. The constant aching in his chest and back feels sharper now and his entire body is pulsing and throbbing as it works extra hard to pump blood and fight off the illness. His eyelids droop a bit, and Jason adjusts his pillows and blankets a little then closes his eyes, intending to get another long nap. Right when he’s drifting off, he hears his door open.

“Jason?” Tim’s voice calls into the large space that is his loft, and Jason’s eyes open and he sniffles crossly. It’s not enough his replacement got him sick; now he’s going to make Jason suffer the indignity of having a witness to his pathetic state as well? 

“Jason, are you here? Your phone’s turned off and half the family has been trying to reach you,” Tim continues, voice gaining volume as he moves further into the flat. 

Jason glowers at the ancient, peeling wallpaper of his bathroom petulantly and replies in a hoarse, scratchy voice, “Tell them they can all go fuck themselves.”

Tim’s footsteps pause briefly before redirecting themselves to Jason’s bathroom door. “I’m coming in,” he declares, right before the door opens. A rush of cool air enters the room and Jason hunches further down in his bathtub nest and shoots Tim a poisonous look. 

“Shut the damn door. You’re letting cold air in.”

Tim reluctantly does so before pointing out, “You could use some cold air. It’s a hundred degrees in here.”

“That’s how I like it,” Jason retorts shortly. 

Tim gives him and the bathroom a long look, taking in Jason’s mountain of blankets, the two space heaters running in the small room, the empty plastic bottles and used tissues everywhere, then says rather obviously, “You’re sick.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Jason bites.

“You’re a grouchy sick person,” Tim observes, cocking an eyebrow and quirking his lips. “That’s not the least bit surprising. Of course you’re a grouchy sick person. What else would you be?” 

“Did you want something? If not, go the fuck away and leave me to die in peace. You inflicted this curse upon me, the least you could do is leave me to suffer free of your presence.”

Much to Jason’s irritation, Tim chuckles. “A dramatic grouchy sick person. You sound like Damian.” 

Jason glares. “Fuck you.”

“How long have you been in here?” Tim asks, a little more seriously.

“I don’t know, what day is it?”

“You look like you have a fever. How high has it gotten?”

“I don’t own a thermometer.”

Tim heaves a put-upon sigh. “Of course you don’t,” he grumbles, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. 

Jason stiffens, “What are you doing?”

“Calling for reinforcements. I haven’t had enough coffee to deal with your stubbornness today. Not to mention I am _not_ getting you out of here myself if I don’t have to. You’re a fucking horse.”

Jason starts to panic a little, “Wait, no. I’m fine. I can definitely stay here. By the way, have I told you lately that you’re my favorite Robin? Because you definitely are.”

Tim gives him an amused look, “Not this week, you haven’t. Relax. I’m not calling Dick. If you pulled a gun on Damian because you weren’t feeling well, I can’t imagine what you’d do to Dick.”

Jason relaxes a little, “Dick is the worst person to have around when you’re sick. He’s not afraid of the germs.”

“Some people like Dick’s cuddles,” Tim points out unhelpfully.

“Some people are morons.”

Tim chuckles again, but is distracted from replying when someone answers his call. “Hey, Bruce. I found him. He’s sick and I’m going to need some help getting him back to the Manor.”

“Whoa, hey!” Jason protests angrily, but his protest is immediately halted by a bout of violent coughing. 

Tim gives him an unimpressed look as he continues to speak into the phone, “Yeah, be warned though; he’s in a mood.”

“I am not…” Jason manages to breath between coughs, “in a fucking _mood_.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Tim replies as he hangs up. “Bruce is on his way.”

“Why the fuck Bruce?” 

“It’s either Bruce or Dick, and Bruce won’t use you being sick as an excuse to cuddle you like an octopus, so I figured he’s the lesser of two evils.”

He _is_ the lesser of two evils, but like hell does Jason want to admit it. Instead he slumps further into his bathtub and grumbles about his stupid fucking family under his breath. 

“I’m going to go pack you a bag,” Tim declares. “It’s like standing on the surface of the sun in here. You know that’s not helping your fever _at all_ , right?”

It’s apparently a rhetorical question, because Tim opens the door and swans off before Jason has the chance to reply. And he _leaves_ the door open too. Jason scowls at it and considers climbing out of the tub to close it, but he’s too damn cold and too damn tired. He pulls the blankets tighter around himself instead. 

Despite his supreme irritation, he’s still exhausted and it isn’t long before he’s dozing again. He startles awake some indeterminable amount of time later to a hand on his forehead and Bruce leaning over the bathtub. He blinks for a moment as his mind tries to catch up to what’s happening, then he groans and shoves the hand away. “No, go away,” he moans, closing his eyes and pulling the blankets up to cover the lower half of his face. “Just leave me here to die.”

“You’re not going to die from the flu, Jason,” Bruce replies and Jason bristles at the trace of amusement in his voice. 

Behind him, Tim asks, “Has he always been this bad when he’s sick?”

“Yes,” Bruce answers and Jason doesn’t care because he can already feel himself start to drift again. Peaceful oblivion is waiting for him, and he’s eager to meet it. “He’d walk around on a fractured ankle cracking jokes, but give him a cold and suddenly the world is ending.”

“Shut up,” Jason grumbles sleepily. “Your old. And stupid. And so is your face.”

Bruce hums and pulls the blankets away from Jason’s face. “Come on, Jay. Let’s get you out of there.”

“I don’t want to. It’s cold,” Jason protests immediately.

“Alfred’s making you soup as we speak. He said to tell you he’ll be very disappointed in you if you don’t come back to the Manor and let him look after you. He’s getting old and making constant trips to the city and back to look after all the members of his family is difficult. Especially when one member insists on living in the Bowery where it’s inadvisable for a man his age to move about on his own. His words, I’m only the messenger.”

Jason opens his eyes and glares. “That’s not fair. His guilt trips shouldn’t work coming from a third party.”

Bruce nods, “But they do. It’s an enviable trait.” Then he asks, “When was the last time you ate?”

Jason makes a face and looks away. “I don’t remember.”

He hears Bruce sigh before an arm digs in amongst his blankets to wrap around his back and help support his shoulders. “Come on then. Let’s get you to Alfred. He’ll get you some soup and medicine, and we’ll put extra blankets on your bed. Being warm in a bed is infinitely better to being warm in a bathtub.”

There’s no getting out of it. Not with Bruce already in his loft and Alfred laying the guilt on thick. He might as well give in now and get food and warmth sooner. He huffs, “Fine, but I’m bringing a gun and if Dick tries to cuddle, I will shoot him.” 

“Rubber bullets and we have a deal,” Bruce says, hauling him upright. He’s immediately freezing. 

It takes him a moment to get his feet under him and he has to let Bruce support him as he steps out of the tub. Once he’s mostly standing under his own power, he sends Tim a suspicious look because Bruce would never be that flippant about Dick possibly getting shot, even with rubber bullets. “That was too easy. Why was that too easy?”

Tim smirks, “Dick is in New York City. Won’t be back for a few more days. You’ll probably be better by then.”

Jason gives Tim a scandalized look, “You _lied_ to me?” Meanwhile, Bruce wraps a blanket around his slightly trembling shoulders and shuffles him out of the bathroom. 

Tim follows with his duffle bag, “Did not. Dick totally would have come back to Gotham just to get your ass to the Manor.”

Which is undoubtedly true. Jason lets it go; he’s got bigger issues now. He turns his attention back to Bruce as they move down the stairs and towards the building’s exit, “No fair. I want a new stipulation.” 

Bruce is thoroughly unconcerned. “You can hash out the details of your stay with Alfred over soup.”

And there’s nothing Jason can really say to that, so he settles for, “You’re still old.”

Bruce hums again and settles Jason in the front seat of one of his many cars. He tucks the blanket around Jason’s shoulders and even buckles the seatbelt for him, before brushing Jason’s sweaty bangs out of his face. “I’m happy you’re coming home too, Jay.” 

And that wasn’t at all what Jason meant by calling Bruce old. And he’s absolutely going to tell Bruce that. Only, by the time Bruce moves around the car and settles into the driver’s seat, he’s drifting back asleep. Oh well. There will be plenty of time to call Bruce old and stupid later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there wasn't supposed to be another chapter of this, but poor chibi_nightowl has been struck by the plague and we got to talking about sick Jason and obviously I just had to write more. Almost every little thing in here is from her so you can all thank (blame) her for this chapter. 
> 
> I hope you finally feel better soon!

It’s been four days since Jason was kidnapped from his home and forced into the Manor, and he can’t take it anymore. He’s restless, Bruce has been hovering, Alfred won’t let him up and about and, worst yet, Dick is heading back from NYC in the morning. Needless to say, Jason is miserable as hell and just wants out, but he has no way to do that short of stealing a car, and he’s not actually confident he can drive at this point. It’s been something like a week since he came down with the flu. Technically he should be hitting the tail end, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way.

He’s hoping it’s the technically that gets him out of the Manor.

After a little deliberation, Jason hauls himself up and to the shower, partially because he feels disgusting, but partially because he needs to somehow look fresh and well and not like he’s still dead in a coffin and buried six feet under. Showering turns out to be a much more of a herculean effort than he anticipated though, and one particularly painful bout of coughing has him out of breath and wheezing on the shower floor. The cough in particular has been extra bad, only getting worse as the days have gone on. His chest aches and it feels like he’s bruised some ribs, and just walking across the room can leave him feeling out of breath. It’s by far the worst case of flu he’s ever had, and he’s including his first winter on the streets where he’d been sure he was going to die.

He gives himself a few minutes leaning against the tiled wall before he hauls himself up and out of the hot water. The shivering starts the second the cold air outside the glass stall hits him, and he struggles to dry off and dress as quickly as he can. Which turns out to be not quickly at all. Snails are moving faster than him at this point.

A quick glance in the mirror tells him he looks almost atrocious as he feels, with his face a combination of pale as death and fever flushed, dark bruises under his eyes, and pale chapped lips. Jason grimaces and seriously considers taking a detour to the cave to utilize some of the makeup down there. There’s a huge stash of high quality stuff that’s utilized on a pretty regular basis whether it’s for covering visible bruises for civilian identities or undercover work. That’s a bit more of a journey than he thinks he’s up for at the moment though, so Jason settles for stuffing his clothes and his current Agatha Christie novel back in his duffle then makes his way downstairs. He can’t afford the trek to the cave and not just because he might not make it back; his nose is taking a break from running and he doesn’t know that it won’t be a faucet again before long. No cave. He’ll have to rely on his acting abilities.

Making it down the stairs feels a bit like climbing a mountain, and Jason takes a break once he reaches the ground floor. It takes longer than it should to catch his breath, but he valiantly stands and makes his way towards the kitchen where he hopes to find Tim or Damian. Tim will take some convincing, but the promise of letting Damian drive should be all he needs to secure the demon’s help in his escape.

He’s disappointed when he finds Alfred and Bruce instead, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He just really, _really_ hopes he doesn’t start coughing.  “Hey,” he begins almost grimacing when it comes out as a croak, “so being kidnapped was a blast and all, but I’m on the mend and ready to get out of here. Can anyone take me back to the Bowery? Or let me borrow a car that will likely be stolen within the hour?”

Alfred arches one very unimpressed brow and Bruce frowns at him. “You’re not ready to go home, Jay. You look terrible.”

“I looked much worse crawling out of my grave,” Jason bites back automatically. “This is a major improvement actually. And I’m feeling a lot better, so I think I’ll go now, thanks.”

Bruce can’t completely hide his wince and Jason is viciously pleased. Even so, the man presses on, voice firm. “You’re still sick, Jason. You’re staying here. And it’s time for your next dose of medicine so have a seat. You look like you’re about to fall down.”

He’s tired and miserable and has no patience for Bruce right now. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he snaps in irritation.

It sounds a lot more childish than he intends it to, but Bruce looks appropriately vexed so Jason doesn’t worry about it too much. The man opens his mouth, about to say something, but Alfred cuts in smoothly, tone calm and collected. “Sit down, Master Jason. I’ll heat up some soup for you, and you can take your next dose of medicine. Meanwhile I’ll take this opportunity to get some fresh sheets on your bed, then you _will_ return to it and _rest_.”

His voice and expression are serene, and yet, looking at him, somehow the man still manages to look like steel. Jason knows immediately he won’t be leaving the Manor today. Sullenly, he sets his duffle bag down, pulls out the chair across from Bruce and sits, more relieved than he’d like to admit to be off his feet. The poorly concealed look of envy Bruce shoots Alfred’s way helps ease the sting of defeat. Jason gives his father a smug look and Bruce does his best to ignore it.

“Very good,” Alfred praises gently before placing Jason’s next dose of cold and flu medicine in front of him along with a bottle of water.  “I’ll get the soup heating,” he adds, moving to the fridge.

The cold water makes his throat clench as soon as it hits. Jason gets the pills down, but only barely and he’s immediately thrown into a coughing fit. It’s one of the worst yet, and has him doubled over in his seat choking and gasping for air. By the time it tapers off, he’s dizzy from it and would swear that his throat’s bleeding.

“That sounded bad,” Bruce says unhappily, and Jason has no idea when he got there, but the man is right beside him running one hand through Jason’s still damp hair, and gently rubbing his back with the other.

He settles his head against the cool kitchen table and ineffectually tries to swat the man’s hands away. Bruce ignores his rather pathetic attempt, focusing instead on Alfred. “He should be nearing the end of the flu period, right? That sounded worse, not better.”

“It’s the Manor,” Jason rasps grumpily. “I’d be better by now if you’d left me at home.”

“You’d have suffocated in a bathtub at home,” Bruce retorts immediately, still rubbing his back like he’s a _child_. Jason grumbles but immediately regrets it because it makes him cough _again_. Thankfully, less severely this time.

“Stop that,” Bruce chastises him when he can breathe again. He turns his attention back to their resident health guru. “Alfred?”

“The cough can linger well after the flu virus is finished,” Alfred spoke from his place at the stove. “It’s possible that Master Jason’s reached the stage where everything is draining and the post nasal drip is aggravating his throat even more. We’ll need to keep a close eye on him though, in case it’s something more.”

Jason’s eyes narrow at the table his face is currently pressed against. He might not be able to leave today, but if this _is_ the tail end of the virus, then it’s possible he could be out of here tomorrow, even if he is still coughing. He just has to play it right.

He decidedly does _not_ mention the shortness of breath and pain in his chest whenever he takes deep breaths. That won’t help him get out any sooner.

Alfred places a bowl of steaming soup and a cup of hot tea in front of him, and Jason picks his head up, eyeing the soup in interest. He can’t smell a damn thing, but he knows from experience that the clear spicy broth smells amazing, and the fresh chicken and veggies in it look enticing for the first time in days. Maybe it really is clearing up.

“I’ll see to your sheets, Master Jason. You will eat as much as you feel capable of, then you will allow your father to assist you back to bed, where you will _stay_. Understood?”

Jason scowls. “I can get there myself.”

“Maybe. You will allow your father to assist you anyway.” And with that, the man strolls out of the room, taking the last word with him.

Jason gives Bruce a scowl. “You suck.”

Bruce sighs. “Love you too, Jay.”

He shoots the man a withering look. “You’re the worst.”

“I try.”

*****  


He drifts miserably in and out of sleep for the remainder of the day, waking for more soup and more medicine, to use the bathroom and then blow a river of snot out of his nose. The cough stays and the aching in his chest gets worse. By the time night rolls around, it’s difficult to breathe and Jason can’t seem to fall fully asleep, yet he can’t seem to stay fully awake either. Instead he stays in this miserable half sleep state, jerking back into awareness with a gasp whenever he starts to drift into something deeper.

He can’t get enough air. It’s too dark in the room, with the blackout curtains drawn. Memories of his coffin plague his mind, and panic sets in as he tries to gasp for more air. Still, he can’t manage to fully wake up until he feels a hard poke on his arm, mercifully bringing him a bit closer to the surface.

“ _Todd_ ,” a young voice hisses as the finger pokes again.

Jason takes a breath, lungs rattling audibly. “Damian?” he croaks, confused, blinking in the darkness.

The boy makes a disapproving noise. Jason tries to talk, to ask him why he’s there, but it turns into painful hacking almost immediately, then when he’s finally done, he doesn’t have the breath to speak.

“Don’t move,” the boy commands before Jason can manage any words, and that’s fine. He’s already drifting back into his miserable half sleep anyway.

It feels like a mere second before Bruce is sitting on the edge of his bed with the bedside lamp on. The man is still in the batsuit, and Damian is standing off to the side with a pinched expression. “See father?”

Bruce hums in agreement. “Yes. Thank you for getting me,” he says before gently snaking his arms under Jason’s shoulders. He pulls him up and Jason grumbles tiredly as he stacks pillows behind him. When he eases Jason back down, his back and chest stay elevated by the pillows and it’s immediately ten times easier to breathe, even if his breathing is still audibly rattling. His chest doesn’t ache quite as badly either.

It’s a relief.

“Damian go get Alfred and have him call Leslie,” Bruce says. The kid leaves the room immediately, but Bruce stays seated on the edge of the bed, brushing Jason’s sweat damp hair away from his forehead.

“How are you doing, Jay?”

“F’cking misr’ble,” he hisses out weakly.

Bruce nods. “We’re going to get Leslie over to look at you. I think it’s safe to say this isn’t just the flu anymore.”

Jason mutters out a weak protest, but now that he doesn’t feel like his lungs are suffocating him, true sleep is pulling on him pretty heavily. “G’way,” he slurs, but he’s not sure if he means it as his eyes droop closed. Bruce doesn’t answer, but Jason’s asleep pretty quickly.

He drifts back awake sometime later with Dr. Thompkins standing over him listening to his lungs, checking his oxygen level and asking him questions that Jason gives up trying to answer after he coughs up a lung.

“—particularly nasty case of bronchitis,” she’s saying as the coughing fit finally dies down. “Unfortunately, it’s most likely viral given that it started with the flu. I can give him a steroid shot and a bronchodilator to use twice a day for the next two weeks. That should ease the cough a little, but other than that, the virus has to run its course. He needs rest and a lot of fluids, and whatever you do, keep Timothy out of here without a mask. A hazmat suit wouldn’t be overkill.”

“We will,” Alfred promises as he adjusts Jason’s blanket. “Thank you for assisting us at this late hour, Leslie. As ever, we are in your debt.”

“I’m just pleased I didn’t have to perform emergency lifesaving surgery on someone in a cold and damp cave. Bronchitis is a vast improvement,” she says as she sticks Jason’s arm with a needle. He grumbles his annoyance at the burn of the steroid, but she pays it no mind and waves what looks like an inhaler in front of his face.

“Go ahead and use this, Jason. It’ll help you breathe.”

Jason does as she says, and though inhaling the medicine does make him cough a little, it also makes the tightness in his airways release a blessed bit. Jason takes a careful breath and revels in the oxygen passing more easily into his lungs.

“Rest, Master Jason,” Alfred says, patting his shoulder.

And that sounds like a great idea, but the memories of the coffin and the nightmares sit heavily in the back of his mind. “Someone open the curtains,” he says as his eyes droop shut. He waits until he hears them being pulled aside before he lets himself fall fully asleep.

*****  


The next time he wakes up, there’s bright light streaming in through the large windows, the sound of food crunching above him and tinny sitcom laughter by his head. He blinks blearily and shifts his gaze to his left where Dick is lounging in his bed, munching loudly on colorful cereal and snorting in amusement at the laptop playing some inane television show in his lap. He has no earthly idea how the elder vigilante managed to sneak the food contraband past Alfred, but Jason’s going to snitch at the earliest opportunity. 

He growls, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Jay!” his brother greets brightly as he realizes Jason’s awake. He lowers the bowl of cereal into his lap. “How are you feeling?”

Jason glances at the bedside table, but his gun is conveniently missing. So instead of shooting the man, he quickly rolls over onto his side and releases the violent cough that’s been building up in his throat right onto his brother’s hands and cereal. Dick jerks the bowl away, but it’s too late; the damage has been done. He stares at it in disgust.

“Spiteful,” Jason finally answers, catching his breath.

Dick frowns. “That was just mean.”

“Your point? The hell you doing in my bed, Dick?”

“Well I’m here to keep you company like the good big brother I am, even if you’re feeling like an asshole,” he remarks, setting the cereal aside.

“Might want to go wash your hands, Dickie. I’m contagious.”

Dick makes another face and climbs out of bed, heading to Jason’s bathroom. Jason takes the opportunity to turn his brother’s laptop off in the middle of his episode, because he wasn’t lying. He really is feeling spiteful.

When Dick returns a few moments later, he sighs at the sight of the closed laptop sitting on the floor, but doesn’t retreat. “I guess we’ll just have to cuddle instead,” he says, getting in bed and pinning Jason’s arms to his sides in a hug before he has time to react. And Jason just doesn’t have the strength to throw him off at the moment, but he does manage a pretty vicious kick in the shin.

“You’re such an asshole,” he hisses after another minute of useless struggling. And just the minute has him feeling completely drained. He gives up, muscles slackening in Dick’s grip.

Dick makes a contented noise and settles in for a nap. “Yep. We’re definitely a family of assholes.”

“I’m telling Alfred about your cereal,” Jason mutters, eyes drifting shut.

“It’s okay. I have backups.”

It’s kind of pathetic how quickly Jason falls right back asleep.

*****  


He loses his voice a day later, and it’s the most irritating 48 hours of his life. 

“So,” Tim says from Jason’s open doorway. He’s wearing a mask over his mouth and a pair of gloves, and he’s making no move to fully enter the room. The fact that he’s there in the first place, makes Jason extremely suspicious, because the kid had been steering clear of the Manor since Jason was diagnosed with bronchitis.

 “Dick called,” he continues, a look of glee in his gaze. “Said you’re actually a closet cuddler.”

Annoyance spikes through Jason and he opens his mouth to retort that no he _is not_ a closet cuddler, he was cuddled against his will, damn it, but all that comes out of his mouth is a dry rasp of air. He snaps his mouth shut and scowls.

_Damn it_. He’s going to fucking murder Dick. Slowly and painfully.

The hint of glee grows rapidly as Tim grins widely. “So it’s true? The great and sarcastic Jason Todd can’t speak?”

If looks could kill, Tim would be deader than a Robin in a blown up warehouse. Jason snatches up his tablet and on the notes app, starts typing in large letters. When he’s done, he holds it up so the younger vigilante can see.

_Fuck you, Timmy._

Tim snickers and pulls out his phone, aiming the camera at Jason. “Oh man, Steph is so upset she’s missing this. Say hello to Steph and Cass, Jason.”

Jason flips off both Tim and his damn phone.

Tim just keeps grinning, “Aw, you don’t want to say anything?”

The irritation flares brighter as he hunches over the tablet and starts typing again.

_I will fucking cough on you_.

“I took precautions,” Tim answers easily, gesturing to his mask.

Jason’s eyes narrow as he decides it’s time to fight fire with fire. He sets the tablet aside and grabs his phone, typing out a quick message to Alfred.

_Tim is risking his life by irresponsibly exposing himself to bronchitis germs and pissing me the hell off._

Alfred appears in the doorway moments later, proving once and for all that he’s the real superhero in the family. “Master Timothy,” he chastises. “This is most unwise.”

A guilty expression flitters over Tim’s face as he argues, “I’m wearing a mask.”

“I believe Dr. Thompkins suggested a hazmat suit. Off you go, Master Timothy.”

Tim sighs and puts his phone away. “Fine, fine.”

Alfred waits until he’s out the room before moving to the bed to fluff the mound of pillows Jason is leaning against. Jason huffs, annoyed, but otherwise lets the butler get away with it.  The man has been doting on him, and if Jason didn’t know why, it’d annoy the shit out of him. But it’s the first time Alfred’s been able to look after him since he died, and Jason can’t bring himself to resent the man’s care. Alfred’s the only one who gets a pass though.

“How about a nice cup of tea, Master Jason? I was about to take a break and would appreciate the company.”

Jason nods. Alfred is fine. The rest of the family, he’s coming after as soon as he’s well.

*****

   
Once the flu is fully out of his system, he feels a bit better. Not completely, because bronchitis is still a bitch and he’s struggling just to breathe properly, but the flu takes the fever with it, and that definitely helps. Still, by day twelve of his illness, he’s really ready to kill someone. The cough just won’t let up. It strikes out of nowhere, even if he’s being good and still. It’s a constant, and it makes him feel like he’s bruised all his ribs and his throat is bleeding. But as shitty as the cough is, it’s the constant feeling of being short of breath that really gets under his skin. No matter how much air he sucks in, none of it feels like enough, and it fuels the low thrum of anxiety that has settled in the back of his mind. It feels like he’s suffocating slowly, and even though he can see through the window out onto the grounds, even though he knows he has more than enough air, it still reminds him too much of the moist earth pressing down on him from all around. 

Having people around actually helps, and Jason almost wishes he hadn’t gotten Tim kicked out of the Manor until there’s no danger of him catching Jason’s illness. Even Dick would be welcome company at this point, but Jason has no idea where his older brother is. And he’s hardly seen Damian since Dr. Thompkins.

It grates at him to the point that Jason just can’t take being trapped in the room alone with his anxiety any longer. He levers himself out of bed and labors down the hall, down the stairs into Bruce’s study (Alfred certainly won’t let him in the kitchen in his state). He’s desperate enough to have _someone_ around to help keep the anxiety at bay that even Bruce will do. So he shuffles into the study, attention focused on the sofa.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Bruce says, not looking up from his desk where he’s working on some WE stuff.

Jason ignores him and drops onto the sofa, coughing violently into one of the pillows before his breathing eases a little.

Bruce sighs quietly, most likely at the germs, but Jason doesn’t give a damn. He can hear Bruce breathing underneath the sounds of his own struggling breaths, and that plus the sounds of the pen scratching and the slight squeak of the chair as Bruce shifts helps Jason relax. He still feels like he’s suffocating a little, but having someone in the room is enough to shatter the illusion his memories cast over him.

He lets his eyes close.

“Your lungs are rattling,” Bruce says after a moment

“They sound just like they did after the crowbar,” he retorts rapidly. He cracks open an eye to see Bruce giving him the most unamused look he’s ever seen and he snorts into the pillow, thankful his nose isn’t running at the moment.

Bruce gives a long suffering sigh and declines comment.

Jason closes his eyes again. At some point he drifts to sleep. It can’t have been long, because Jason feels like he’d just barely closed his eyes, but when he opens them, he’s got a fuzzy blanket draped over him. Bruce is still working away at his desk.

“Feeling alright?” he asks, once he notices Jason’s awake.

“Yeah,” Jason mumbles sleepily, pulling the blanket up tighter around his shoulders. He’s still exhausted. “Gonna sleep more.”

“Okay. I have a bit more work to do.”

Jason closes his eyes and feels a rush of unexpected warmth in his chest as his mind supplies the words Bruce actually meant. _I’ll still be here_.


End file.
